


A Past Captured in Sepia Moments

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 23:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5560690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unforeseen event affords Peter a unique opportunity to learn about Neal’s mysterious past.<br/>Set early in Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Past Captured in Sepia Moments

     Peter Burke sat at his desk and stared at the open envelope. Delivered via the Marshals’ convoluted channels, it had finally been forwarded to him, since he was Neal’s designated handler and ultimately responsible for him. Then Peter gazed out into the bullpen where he saw his CI, dark head bent over a file, totally engaged in whatever knot he was trying to unravel at the moment. Peter really dreaded what he had to do. This was going to be a challenging hurdle to face with the proper degree of professional as well as personal compassion.

     The seasoned FBI agent knew that he had grown fond of Neal, even though their first year working together had been a tumultuous one, with ups and downs that rivaled a playground seesaw. Nothing was ever easy, and building bridges of trust was an uphill battle—one step forward and then two steps back. Right now things remained tenuous. Peter suspected that Neal still harbored some silent resentment over his arrest and brief incarceration for the theft of a pink diamond from a high-class Manhattan shop. The newly minted CI had placed his faith in Peter, and Peter had let his suspicious and cautious nature get the better of him. Of course, Neal managed to mask any hurt after the fiasco, but Peter wasn’t totally buying it. On the surface, their relationship appeared to have reached an equilibrium once again. They never spoke of the issue afterwards—just brushed all the emotional debris under the rug. El was right; men were totally inept when it came to discussions about their feelings.

     Peter sighed and evaluated his own behavior today. More than likely, his invasive prying into the young man’s personal business would only cause their always imminent chasm to widen. He almost felt guilty for opening mail that was addressed to Neal, but that was his right during the entire length of Neal’s probation under his authority. If the con man were still in prison, all of his mail would be methodically opened and scrutinized. This was no different, Peter reasoned, but then his conscience said— _yeah, it is different_.

     Fingering that single sheet of paper, Peter read and re-read the cold, terse sentences that contained a message of momentous significance.

 _“This is to inform you that your mother, Fiona Caffrey Bennett, died after a short illness while in the Witness Protection Program in St. Louis, Missouri.”_  

     Further information included on the page included the date and time of a memorial service that was to be held the day after tomorrow in a suburb of the Midwestern city.

     Peter knew virtually nothing of Neal’s early life. It was almost as if the young con man/thief/forger had abruptly arrived on this earth, fully formed, at age eighteen. Peter didn’t know why this mention of a mother hit him like a punch to the gut. Of course, Neal would have had a mother and a father, even if he never acknowledged them. Peter knew for a fact that no correspondence from any family had come to Neal while he was in prison. Kate’s letters were his sole interaction with the outside world. So, what kind of relationship had a young Neal shared with parents who obviously chose to remain conspicuously absent from his adult life?

     Other questions formed in Peter’s mind. Had Neal grown up in Witness Protection with his parents, and, if so, why? Perhaps only Neal’s mother was in that federal program to protect her from someone. Peter flatly refused to believe that she was being shielded from her son—no, that was just not possible. There were so many questions that Peter dared not ask right now.

     Finally, Peter did what he had to do. He stood on the small balcony outside of his office and called to Neal, who immediately came trotting up the steps, his expression forming a question. He ushered the young man inside and shut the door. Right now Peter hated the fact that everyone in the White Collar office existed in a glass fishbowl with absolutely no privacy. At least Neal’s back would be the only thing that any curious eyes would see as he perched in the visitor’s chair across from his handler.

     There was nothing that Peter could do to soften the blow, so he simply handed Neal the fateful letter without saying a word. He watched as the young man scanned the text and then glanced up at him with opaque, unreadable blue eyes.

     Pointedly glancing at the empty envelope on Peter’s desk, Neal commented in a controlled voice, “I see that you have already made yourself privy to the news.”

     Standing abruptly, he then dropped the letter back on the desk and remarked coolly, “I’ll just leave this with you, Peter. I’m sure it’s probably mandated somewhere in an FBI manual that it has to become part of my file stored in the Bureau’s dusty archives.”

     Peter’s voice stopped his retreat out the door. “Neal, sit down. We need to talk.”

     The young man turned, cocked his head, and raised one eyebrow condescendingly as if that suggestion was the most ridiculous thing that he had ever heard. Peter knew that Neal was assuming a persona; he was donning his armor. The FBI agent also knew that he needed to find a chink in it to make any headway. Time stood still for a few heartbeats until, like a petulant teenager, the con man slouched back into the chair radiating antagonistic insolence.

     Peter refused to be intimidated. “Listen, Neal, I have talked with the Marshals as well as Hughes, and you have been granted bereavement leave to attend your mother’s memorial service. I will be accompanying you to St. Louis the day after tomorrow. The anklet will stay on while we are away, but the two-mile radius will be suspended temporarily. There is a flight that leaves JFK that morning, and a late afternoon return flight the same day. I know that is not much time to wrap up your mother’s affairs, but it is the best that I could do. I want you to know that I am sorry for your loss,” he finally finished lamely.

     Neal studied Peter intently, and the FBI agent wondered if the CI found his handler deficient in the empathy department. Peter knew his own shortcomings. He realized that he was emotionally heavy-handed, and his area of expertise certainly wasn’t in the realm of comforting concern. Elizabeth would have been so much better at this.

     Finally, Neal responded, “That trip won’t be necessary, Peter. I don’t want or need to go to St. Louis.”

     This terse reply didn’t satisfy Peter. “Neal, this is your mother who has died. Of course you need to go.”

     “No, I don’t,” Neal said just as adamantly.

     Peter took a breath. “Look, Buddy, I don’t know what kind of relationship that you had with either of your parents. But I don’t want a rash decision on your end to cause you regret down the road. You need to deal with your loss, Neal. The fact still remains that this woman was responsible for bringing you into this world. We’re all an amalgamation of our parts, and, like it or not, she was a part of who you were and who you have become.”

     “What makes you an authority on what’s right for me,” Neal challenged with an edge to his tone.

     “Because you’re impulsive, Neal, and you don’t always think things through,” Peter answered honestly. “Somebody has to be the grownup and the voice of reason regarding your welfare.”

     Peter could almost swear that the anger radiating from Neal was palpable as he said, “I know that the FBI owns me for the next few years, and I will perform like the trained monkey that I have become while in their service. However, my private life is off the table, Peter, for you and everyone else who thinks that they have the right to be a voyeur.”

     Peter took a steadying breath. This was getting them nowhere. “Go home, Neal. Now! Be ready to leave first thing in the morning in two days’ time. This is not open for negotiation or further discussion.”

     Neal glared and, for just a minute, Peter wondered exactly what this usually placid young man was contemplating. For that matter, Peter wasn’t sure how he would handle a hostile, defiant Neal. The agent was relieved when the sullen felon rose and left Peter’s office without a backwards glance.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Of course, Peter being Peter, he discussed the situation in detail with El that night over dinner.

     “Do you think that I was wrong to take the course of action that I did?” he asked tentatively.

     El smiled wryly. “Do you mean do I think that you acted like a bull in a china shop, Peter?”

     “Yeah, I guess I sort of did,” Peter said sheepishly. “I really think that he was most angry about the fact that I opened the letter from the Marshals that was addressed to him. But honestly, El, if I hadn’t read that letter, I’m not certain that Neal would have even mentioned his mother’s death to me or anyone. That’s just not normal behavior.”

     “Peter, just think about it from Neal’s perspective,” El tried to explain. “He’s had absolutely no control over his life for years. In prison, he was told what to wear, what to eat, when to sleep, what task to do, and when to do it. Now, he’s still under someone’s thumb while working for the FBI; it’s just a different kind of confinement. He can only venture just so far in Manhattan, and his every move is monitored. Somebody always knows exactly where he is. He is told what job that he is to do, and when he needs to do it. Any friends that he makes are thoroughly scrutinized, and, on a whim, strangers are free to search his things and confiscate whatever they choose. Do you really blame him for simply craving a little autonomy and privacy regarding his personal life?”

     “El, it’s really not that bad,” Peter argued. “I’m not some ogre who cracks a whip over his head day after day.”

     Elizabeth finally took pity on her husband. “Peter, would you like me to come with you and Neal to St. Louis to act as a sort of buffer until things are on a better footing between you?”

     Although Peter was tempted, he really could not expect his wife to patch this up for him. He and Neal would have to work it out themselves.

~~~~~~~~~~

      On the designated morning, Peter arrived on the dot at the Riverside mansion. Neal, usually very punctual, passive-aggressively kept him waiting for fifteen minutes. The agent spent that time having a cup of Italian roast coffee with June. Even though a gracious hostess, Peter still felt the coolness of her stare as they quietly sat in the sedate parlor.

     “I suppose Neal has told you about where we are going,” Peter queried.

     “Yes, Peter, he has,” was her quiet answer.

     “Then I guess you know that he is very angry about what I am forcing him to do,” Peter gingerly tested the waters.

     June smiled knowingly, “I think that you may have painted Neal, as well as yourself, into a corner.”

     “I think it’s the right thing to do under the circumstances,” Peter again tried to justify his actions.

     “Peter,” June said in a soft, non-judgmental tone, “there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to navigate through the miasma of grief. We each have to find our own path in our own time as best as we can.”

     Any further conversation was halted when Neal sailed into the room in a dark, well-cut pinstriped suit, his tie and his pocket square a subdued gray hue. He gently kissed June on the cheek and told her that he would be back late, so please don’t wait up for him.

     “Of course not, Darling,” she smiled, and both of them knew that was a lie. She would be sitting in this very chair listening for his key in the door, no matter what the hour. The wise and loving woman would be there in case he needed her.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The ride to the airport took place in complete silence. Peter could abide the cold shoulder routine and would wait Neal out. He was very good at waiting. Eventually, the estranged travelers boarded the non-stop, two and a half hour United flight that would get them into the St. Louis airport where Peter had a car rental arranged. Neal had simply closed his eyes after the plane had lifted off the runway, and feigned sleep the entire way.

     At the terminal, Peter took the keys to a Nissan Sentra, and busied himself programming the navigation system with the address of the church where the memorial service was to take place. During the drive, he was the one to break the silence.

     “You do realize, Neal, that at some point you are going to have to talk to me.”

     “At some point, maybe I will, but right now I’m really not up for any of your virtuous lectures,” Neal answered tersely.

     So, the stalemate continued during the drive to the outskirts of the city. The journey eventually took them to a quiet but aging middleclass suburb. The houses were all 1950’s tract houses probably erected when veterans were returning from the conflicts of WWII, marrying their sweethearts, and starting families. The trees that lined the streets were mature and massive, their long-established root systems cracking and disrupting the sidewalks. There were no spiffy, late-model cars parked in the driveways. No Walmarts or McDonalds loomed in the distance, and they passed only an occasional abbreviated strip mall housing a small grocery store, laundromat, or secondhand consignment shop. The whole area seemed to have a sad, worn-out look about it.

     Even with the aid of a direction-finding system, Peter still managed to make some wrong turns. When they finally drove into the parking area of a weathered clapboard church, they were ten minutes late. Entering quietly through the wooden doors, Neal chose to settle into the very last pew where Peter joined him. In the vestibule, Peter had hurriedly picked up a printer-generated sheet of paper that announced that this memorial service was to commemorate the passing of _“Margaret Brooks.”_ Peter assumed the fictitious name was the one that the Marshals have bestowed on Neal’s mother when she had entered the Witness Protection program.

     The officiating minister was just as timeworn as his church. Balding and florid-faced, he was delivering a homily in a quiet voice to a small audience of just three mourners who were all women of a certain age. His words contained the standard phrases of trying to understand and ultimately accept God’s plan for His flock. It was about finding peace, and residing with the Lord. Peter felt sacrilegious for deeming it canned rhetoric that was neither inspiring nor comforting. It seemed detached rather than personal, and Peter wondered if the man actually knew Neal’s mother.

     Apparently, none of those in attendance planned to add to the eulogy, so the minister proceeded to wrap things up. When he began to intone the solemn words of “The Lord’s Prayer,” Peter felt Neal slip from beside him on the wooden bench. A quiet closure of the church’s doors followed.

     The FBI agent assumed that he would eventually find his partner already seated in the car, buckled up, and impatient to leave. However, Peter was waylaid in his plan to follow when the front row of ladies turned as one and spied him. The oldest of the trio, who appeared to be in her seventies, hurried toward him.

     “Good afternoon,” the plump, gray-haired matron gushed as she glided up the aisle and grabbed Peter’s hand. “I heard the back doors open, but I didn’t want to turn around while my husband was conducting the service. My name is Mary Cummins, and I am the pastor’s wife. I’m so glad that you could join us. Did you know Margaret?”

     “Peter Burke,” Neal’s handler responded quickly. “Actually, I didn’t know the lady personally. I’m just here accompanying a friend who, unfortunately, had to step out rather unexpectedly.”

     Peter’s rather succinct explanation wasn’t going to cut it with these three women. One after the other, he was introduced to Doris and then Helen, Mary’s cohorts. They surrounded him and insisted that he accompany them to the small community room off to the side of the nave for some refreshment. It would have been rude to ignore their rather insistent invitation.

     “We have hot tea and cookies—our standard fare for wakes,” Mary explained. “Since we weren’t expecting a large turnout, it’s rather sparse, I’m afraid.”

     So, Peter was ushered into the adjacent room by a bevy of curious yet polite doyennes. The “interrogation” that followed over an innocent cup of Earl Grey would have made the FBI’s similar efforts to extract information look shabby.

  * Yes, Peter had flown in from New York City earlier today.
  * Yes, he was accompanying his friend, who had a connection of some sort to the deceased, but really, they would have to ask the friend about the relationship.
  * Yes, he and his friend were partners— _work partners_ , he hastened to add, just in case these very proper ladies assumed the wrong connotation.
  * Yes, Peter was married, and, no, he didn’t have any children.
  * His work involved law enforcement, but Peter really did not want to bore them with the details.
  * No, this wouldn’t be an extended visit. He and his friend were returning this afternoon to New York City.



     Finally, Peter had tap-danced for as long as he could. Like a browbeaten, intimidated perp, he had finally given up a name to his merciless inquisitors—his friend’s name was Neal Caffrey. To his relief, that wrested confession was met with disappointed expressions.

     “We were so hoping that maybe Margaret’s son would come back for the service,” Mary lamented. “It would have been so good to see Danny again. He’d be a grown man now, but it seems like just yesterday that I was sticking a band aid on one of his skinned knees.”

     “Maybe Danny doesn’t even know about her passing,” Helen suggested. “We have no idea if they still kept in contact with each other. She never mentioned him after he left, but then that’s not really surprising considering how Margaret was.”

     Peter felt a definite undercurrent running through these remarks. He was intrigued, so he asked, “Since you ladies attended Ms. Brooks’ memorial service, I am assuming that you knew her well?”

     “I wouldn’t exactly say that we knew her well,” Doris snorted. “She didn’t allow anybody to get too close. Helen lived next door to her ever since she moved here ages ago. Helen tried to be a good neighbor and to befriend her, but Margaret wasn’t having any of it. She wasn’t one to socialize, kept to herself, and never volunteered any personal information.”

     “That’s right,” Helen agreed. “One day, out of the blue, there she was—no husband in sight, just little Danny, who was only three years old at the time.”

     “And wasn’t that child beautiful,” Mary enthused, “all that thick, dark hair and those big blue eyes. He was so sweet; you just couldn’t help falling in love with him as soon as you saw him.”

     “It’s amazing that he managed to turn out the way that he did considering the mother that he had,” Doris commented snidely.

     “Now Doris,” Mary chided,” we mustn’t speak ill of the dead. She probably did the best that she could.”

     “Oh stop playing the charitable preacher’s wife, Mary,” Doris scolded. “You have to admit, that woman was never a proper mother to her child. She neglected him, and you know it!”

     Helen interceded and tried to play peacemaker. “I think that we’re all a bit wiser and more informed nowadays about certain things. In retrospect, it’s probably safe to say that most likely Margaret was suffering from clinical depression. I cannot believe she was the way that she was because she chose to be that way. It was probably something that she couldn’t help. Today, a doctor would most likely give her a pill to cure what ailed her.”

     Peter’s head was swiveling back and forth as if he was watching a tennis match. Apparently, he had inadvertently stumbled onto the mother lode of information. “Tell me more about Danny,” he prompted.

     The three woman had become so invested in their memories, it seemed as if they had almost forgotten his presence. However, he was their guest and a fresh audience, so they were only too happy to indulge and entertain him.

     “Have you ever heard the expression, Peter, that ‘ _It takes a village to raise a child_ ,’” Mary asked? “Well, it is particularly appropriate in Danny’s case. We all became his surrogate mothers and fathers and looked out for him.”

     “That’s right,” Helen chimed in. “Somebody had to do the Christian thing because we were all worried about him. At first, we hardly ever saw him, not even playing outside. Margaret never sent the little tyke to kindergarten—claimed she was ‘home-schooling’ him. However, when the county school board worker insisted that he had to attend the local public school for first grade, well that brought a whole new set of problems. I’d see the little guy trudging down the street to the bus stop in winter without even a proper, warm coat. My son, Alec, was a few years older, so I’d pass his old clothes on to Margaret.

      Danny was always really on the thin side, but we didn’t know how bad it truly was until George Wilson, who owned the little grocery store a few blocks over, caught him shoplifting canned goods. He was just seven years old and trying to hide chili and soup under his jacket. Well, George handled that quite nicely. He told Danny that he wouldn’t turn him in to the police, but he had to work off the debt. He dictated that the boy come to his store everyday after school for a week to help stock the shelves.

     After working to make restitution, George then insisted that the child keep coming at least three times a week to lend a hand. George was a slick old codger. He claimed that it would be against the law for him to pay a salary to a minor, so he started giving Danny bags of groceries instead as wages. It saved face all around.”

     Now it was Doris’ turn to add her two cents. “The whole neighborhood would find chores for Danny to do—weeding, mowing, washing their car, shoveling snow—whatever. Afterwards, they would give him a dollar and a homemade casserole to take home.”

     “He’d save that money, you know,” Mary reminisced, “so that he could buy art supplies. The Good Lord had blessed him with an amazing talent, and his drawings and paintings were simply beautiful.”

     “Wasn’t there anyone who could check on his welfare from time to time, like social services or something?” Peter asked.

     “Well, Danny wasn’t actually abused,” Mary insisted. “It was more like he was forgotten. Nevertheless, he was always fiercely protective of his mother. You could not say a bad thing about her in his presence. He’d just make excuses for her lapses and insist that they were doing okay.”

     Helen, the next-door neighbor, had more to offer. “Every once in a while, a stranger—another woman—would breeze in and stay for a bit. She never introduced herself, so we couldn’t get a handle on what her connection was to Margaret and Danny. When we asked him, he just said that she was his Aunt Ellen, but we were never really sure that she was an actual relative. She would get things organized for a while—fill the pantry, get Danny new pants when the old ones were up above his ankles. But it was a temporary fix. When she left, things would be back to more of the same.”

     “As I said before, it always amazed me that Danny managed to turn out as sweet as he did,” Doris spoke up, reiterating her previous sentiment. “Everyone just loved him, and he could melt your heart when he smiled. He was really smart, too, and did so well in school that we all hoped he would get some kind of scholarship to go off to college.

      However, something must have happened, because one day, just months before high school graduation, Danny disappeared. Margaret would not divulge a word, and actually took the mystery to her grave. We just all hoped that Danny had found his way wherever he ultimately wound up.”

     There was finally a temporary lull in the non-stop commentary. Peter realized that he had now sipped his way through three cups of weak tea, but the cornucopia of information was worth it. Small towns were so far removed in nature from their larger, more sophisticated counterparts. Peter had grown up in a tiny, blue-collar borough in Upstate New York, probably little different in temperament from this one, and he recognized the mystique. In small towns, everyone knew your business and had an opinion, but, above all, they prided themselves on taking care of their own. Apparently, they would always consider Danny/Neal as one of their own.

     As the confided tidbits of gossip eventually dried up, the FBI agent was surprised to feel sudden unexpected pangs of guilt begin to gnaw at his gut. He remembered Neal’s heated words—yes, Peter admitted to himself—this was exactly like being an intrusive voyeur. The justification that knowing Neal’s childhood history would help him understand the man that the felon had ultimately become was a weak argument. He had no valid reason to snoop, and should have left it alone. He should have respected Neal’s right to the privacy of his past.

     Thus, Peter thanked his gracious hostesses and said that he had to be leaving. Once outside, he worked hard to achieve a neutral expression before facing Neal once again. However, his wayward CI wasn’t in the car. Peter sighed and pulled up Neal’s tracking anklet information on his phone. According to the little blinking dot, he was about two miles away, and appeared to be stationary.

     Peter drove slowly, following the cursor to yet another parking lot—this one encircling a large, utilitarian, stand-alone facility. A no-frills neon marquis made any potential customer aware that there was a bar and pool hall inside the white shingled establishment. Several motorcycles were the only vehicles in evidence right now.

     It took a few minutes after Peter stepped from the sunlight into the interior for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He noted a mirrored bar at the far end, and a series of six regulation-size pool tables situated around the long room. Each one was illuminated by a faux stained glass fixture suspended above it.

     The FBI agent immediately located Neal amidst a group of heavily tattooed, leather-clad young toughs clustered around the only table that was seeing any action. Neal had shed his jacket and tie, and had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a beer in his hand, and was nonchalantly munching on some peanuts as he studied the remaining colored balls that were still in play. The do-rag gang stood back and gave him a bit of room. With polished finesse, he elegantly executed a bank shot, sinking the eight ball into a corner pocket. Peter could not help but notice the pile of greenbacks on an adjacent table.

     Peter was so absorbed in watching the scene before him that he was startled when a voice at his elbow said, “Can I get you something, Pal?”

     Peter turned to face a man in his fifties, a hand towel tucked into the waist of his pants, standing on the other side of the bar.

     “Um, whatever you have on tap, I guess,” Peter replied lamely.

     “If you don’t mind me saying so,” the bartender ventured as he took in Peter’s conservative suit and tie, “you look a little out of your element here.”

     “Well, yeah, maybe I am. Actually, I just came into town for a memorial service over at the church,” Peter explained.

     The bartender immediately brightened. “Oh, so you’re a friend of Danny’s. In that case, the beer’s on the house.”

     “So, you know …… Danny?” Peter asked carefully, noting the fond look in the older man’s eyes as he watched Neal rack up another set of balls and chalk his pool cue.

     “Yeah, sure! We go way back. Danny and my kid, Brad, were best buds when they went to school. I used to let the two of them hang out here in the afternoons and on weekends. They were inseparable until Brad started getting involved in sports like Peewee Football and Little League. Danny couldn’t try out for the teams ‘cause he said he had to work three days a week at the corner grocery store. But he still came by to keep me company when Old Man Wilson didn’t have him bagging foodstuffs.”

     The bartender smiled faintly as he remembered. “That kid was fascinated with pool and practiced for hours on end. And let me tell you, he got really, really good at it! It was great for business because his reputation spread. This joint saw a lot of action when curious fellas from the city ventured out here to the sticks to take on the “Boy Wonder of Pool.” Danny was a hustler; I raked in the money selling booze while he raked it in by putting the non-believers to shame. It was pretty funny watching cocky bastards get their asses handed to them by an eight-year-old kid who had to stand on a crate to reach the table.”

     Peter matched the bartender’s smile. Neal never ceased to amaze Peter. The two continued to watch the current series of pool challenges for the next hour, and it was soon apparent that Neal hadn’t lost his edge in the intervening years. One by one, he dismantled his opponents while the pot of money grew. However, the surly mood of the losers increased exponentially as well, and Peter noted that a baseball bat had somehow materialized atop the bar when the “Harley Hog” gang suddenly began forming an ominous circle around Neal.

     “I think you’re a friggin’ hustler, Dude, and we really don’t like people who think that they can make fools of us,” the most vocal member threatened.

     Neal turned to him with an ingratiating grin plastered on his face. “You’re right, man, that’s exactly what I am. I’m a friggin’ hustler, and that is why I can’t take your money. But I have enjoyed your company while it lasted, gentleman, and now the drinks are on me.”

     For a moment, Peter held his breath while the bartender gripped the handle of his bat. But then, like a puff of smoke, the hostility suddenly evaporated into the air. Longhaired Goliaths in muscle shirts and chains were suddenly thumping the con man on the back and fist bumping him. Neal had worked his magical charisma once again.

     Peter approached Neal as the young man was putting on his coat and placing his folded tie into a pocket.

      Speaking in a low tone, he asked, “We still have about an hour before we have to be at the airport. Do you want to stop by your mother’s house to see if there is anything that you want to take with you?”

     Neal slowly shook his head. “There’s nothing there for me, Peter. Let’s just go home.”

     For some strange reason that Peter couldn’t fathom at the moment, Neal’s simple reply caused Peter’s heart to ache for him. However, his outward response was to pat his partner on the shoulder as they slowly made their way towards the exit. The bartender saluted Neal when the con man turned back for just a brief second. Not to be outdone, the motorcycle posse raised their beer bottles amidst hoots and whistles. With insightful perception, Peter realized at that moment that they were walking away from Danny Brooks’ life just as Neal had done so many years ago.

     Once back at the airport, Peter grabbed a quick sandwich at a kiosk, but Neal simply bought a bottle of water. He hadn’t exchanged any words with Peter while they awaited their boarding call. Once they were airborne and the “fasten seatbelt” sign winked out, Neal passed the flight attendant a twenty and ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. He reclined his seatback slightly and sipped at his drink for many air miles before uttering a word. Perhaps drinking hard liquor on an empty stomach made Neal vulnerable, and the usually defensive walls a little less impenetrable. At least that is the reason Peter attributed to the sudden, subdued words that he had to strain to hear.

     “I did love my mother, you know.”

     Peter stared straight ahead just as Neal was doing when he answered softly, “I know you did.”

     After a beat, more hesitant words followed. “I just couldn’t forgive the lies and the deceit when I found out, and then I ran and never looked back.”

     “Have you forgiven her now, Neal?”

     A sigh followed and then a heartfelt answer, “Yeah, Peter, I have. It’s just a bit harder to forgive myself.”

     It took awhile for Peter to get the sentiments right in his mind before letting the words reach his tongue, and he fervently hoped that they would help this enigmatic man who, surprisingly, had become a friend.

     “We go through life, Neal, and write the pages of our story as we go. That tale may contain mystery, heartache, joys, and triumphs. But ultimately, what makes our story interesting and worth living is our failures and what we do about them.”

     Neal had closed his eyes. Maybe he was pretending to be asleep, or maybe he had simply succumbed to a Scotch-induced stupor. He probably hadn’t registered Peter’s little soliloquy. Therefore, Peter was startled ten minutes later when Neal slowly turned to him and favored him with a crooked smile.

     “Words of wisdom from Yoda?”

     Then, after a beat, the smile faded, and he stared at Peter with eyes that were open and honest.

     “Thank you, Peter.”


End file.
